


The Reviews Are In

by kateyboosh



Category: The Mighty Boosh RPF
Genre: And chicken out and cannot write a bad review, Baby Boosh, Banter, Because Terrantalen Hearts 'Em, Because who could be mean to these boys on purpose?, Gratuitous mentions of clothing as a love language, In which I write a fake review that's nice, Just a short lil thing from my drafts, M/M, Stroppy Noel, The Alberta Basketball and Pac Man Tees, What else do you expect from me?, Wise Julian, implied hand holding, kiss kiss
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2021-03-20
Updated: 2021-03-20
Packaged: 2021-03-28 18:28:34
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,850
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/30143748
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/kateyboosh/pseuds/kateyboosh
Summary: And for once, the clothing stays on.Baby Boosh boys read some press, and then they kiss. That's it.
Relationships: Julian Barratt/Noel Fielding
Comments: 6
Kudos: 11
Collections: Trash Triplets Present (to our own surprise): The Completely Spontaneous Kiss Kiss Week Collection





	The Reviews Are In

**Author's Note:**

> Inspired by a lil line that starsonthebrow wrote for me, and Terrantalen's love of that red secondhand store treasure that Ju wore, and wore, and wore, and wore.
> 
> The review is fake in that it wasn't actually anything that was published about them, but the sentiment is true.

"That's a good one," Noel slurs. His hand's half-curled over his mouth as he taps distractedly at part of a page cropped from a magazine. The glossy corner crumples against the mattress the same way his pleased smile is crumpled up in his palm. 

Julian wants to take his hand, scoop it up and watch Noel's grin unfurl across his face, but he's already absorbed in scanning a short column of newsprint, one of the press clippings in the packet they'd gotten to read over today, so Julian picks the clipping up. 

There's a small photo of the pair of them, Noel in profile, Julian looking straight at the photographer, followed by brief mentions of art school and standup and tennis matches before the actual review. The last few lines catch his eye.

_ Every clever quip from Barratt's Moon is batted back with a guileless grin and a cheeky rejoinder from Fielding's Noir. Playful, charming scenes develop around the pair like a blanket fort constructed of secondhand quilts and cheerfully ragtag sofa cushions, small enough to be intimate but big enough that every audience member can engage and join in on the secret.  _

_ Don't let the description fool you; it's a whimsical offering, but it's built on a solid foundation. Watching the pair perform, you can't help but see the comedy as the frame that surrounds the portrait of affection that Fielding and Barratt embody throughout.  _

Julian smiles. 

He tucks the page into one of Noel's notebooks that's open on his bedside table, wedges it between a sketch of crows and a swirl of notes sectioned into rectangles and oblong shapes, and shuts the cover. 

Noel's face is dark when he turns back, his brow drawn and his jaw tense.

"Fucking idiot," he mumbles. 

Julian grimaces when Noel huffs and pushes off the bed, scattering clippings as he goes. He snags the offending newsprint before it disappears into the tangle of the sheets, and skims as Noel paces. 

A seed of unrest starts to unfurl in his stomach, sending out cold, creeping tendrils the further he goes.

The nicest thing Julian can say in review of the review is that it's a quick read, maybe a couple hundred words, and it spells "Barratt" correctly. Other than that, it's unpleasant from the start. It would almost be funny if the journalist didn't feel so willfully resistant of being open to any style of comedy performed after 1942. Maybe it would be wryly amusing if it was about anyone's show but their own, the one that they'd panicked and agonized and spent sleepless nights over, trying to ring each other quietly at half three in the morning when they'd slept apart and cracked a scene open on their own. 

He's near the ending paragraph (more dismissive and equally as rude as a door slammed in his face) when Noel groans, all hot annoyance and frustration. 

"What the fuck  _ was  _ that?" he says, scraping his hands through his hair and down over his face.

Julian gasps out an incredulous laugh when he reads the final sentence. "I don't know. I feel like I've been poisoned." He shakes his head, trying to ward off the cloud of disbelief looming over him, threatening to tie itself to his pinky and follow him around for the next week. 

"Where does this old gimmer get off, saying-" 

Noel grabs for the clipping and holds the tiny square of paper taut between both hands.

"'The concept of "the quest" is overdone, cliched, formulaic, and the duo present an unchallenging, unoriginal, uninteresting take that ultimately falls flat.' He's probably fucking old enough that he invented the fucking concept of 'the' fucking 'quest,'" Noel spits.

"Someone should tell him that 'overdone,' 'cliched,' and 'formulaic' are nearly the same word," Julian says, his stomach clenching hearing the upset in Noel's voice. He tries to keep his tone light, wry and amused, but Noel's not calmed down enough to listen. He's back to pacing, holding the clipping stiffly in one hand away from his body. 

"I'm not sure he was even watching our show, actually, because I don't remember seeing any massive fucking pensioner  _ dickheads _ in the audience." 

Julian can feel the tension in his arm when he reaches out to catch him, wrapping his fingers above his elbow and tugging him back to perch on the edge of the bed. He looks about a breath away from springing back up and knocking Julian's desk set over before kicking his way through the door and tossing the kettle out the window. 

Julian rests his hand in the dip between Noel's shoulders, letting the heat of his palm seep through the thin black fabric of Noel's t-shirt. They'd found their shirts on the same day, at about the same moment, Noel looking up from the rack opposite Julian and grinning a lopsided grin at finding floating pixel ghosts buried in amongst plain black. 

"That's it, you have to get that one now," he'd said, nodding his head at the red fabric in Julian's hands. "I found mine, that one's yours."

Julian had grinned back at him and leaned over the rack, resting his arms against the bars, dangling the t-shirt loosely from his fingertips. "Who says, bossy boots?"

"Me." Noel had leaned in, too, pushing hangers aside to get closer in the space. "That's the first rule of shopping." 

Julian's brow had skated up leisurely, of its own accord. "Shopping? What happened to 'just looking?'" 

"Just looking" had started half an hour ago on the street, Noel tugging on the arm of Julian's jacket and steering them into the shop, over to a pile of fur coats and flared jeans, then to a pile of tangled belts and accessories, then to racks of shirts. 

"We did 'just look,'" Noel grinned back. "We just happened to look and find something." 

Sometimes, Julian can't believe the cheek. It means a walk back to the flat instead of a cab, and more laundry to do, but Noel's smile spreads across his face as he waits, propping his eyes up to sparkle under the harsh fluorescent lights.

"Alright," Julian had said. "That one's mine." 

His eyes hadn't left Noel's face as he spoke. 

There's nothing more that Julian wants now than to wipe the last few minutes clean, like recording radio silence over a cassette tape, rewinding to take Noel's hand in his own before it touched the next clipping, to kiss his palm and then kiss the secret little smile off of his mouth and onto his own. 

His voice is a hush. 

"Hey, don't let it bother you. Fuck anyone if they don't want to understand."

Noel shrugs one-shouldered, and Julian can feel some of the steam go out of him, can tell from the drop of Noel's limbs that he's closer to a sulk now than to a full-on strop.

"Really, don't let some ancient tosser with a thesaurus and a hard-on for 'proper jokes' - you know, the ones with punchlines like they did in the 1870s - upset you." 

Noel smirks. His hand unclenches at "proper jokes," and Julian reaches over to take the clipping from him. He swings his legs back on the bed and tosses the rest of the pages onto his lap, patting at the space next to him. 

"Besides, what would he say now if he saw you like this?"

"Something fucking rude, I reckon," Noel starts, climbing over Julian's legs and flopping down in a huff. 

Julian hums. "Maybe." He clears his throat. "Maybe not. Perhaps something like…."

"The World Championship of Strop kicked off this evening in the bedroom of a modest flat," Julian says. He sounds like a 1940s newsreader, someone in a three-piece suit with his hair slicked back and his shoes polished to a shine and every button done up to his commandingly-knotted necktie, not someone wearing a worn secondhand t-shirt for some type of Canadian sports team. 

"Multiple sources say the only observer, a handsome, distinguished, well-dressed Northern gentleman, was amused but unsurprised to find that sole entrant Noel Fielding was crowned winner of the competition."

The soft thunk of the lone pillow on the bed between them connecting square with the side of Julian's face dampens his voice momentarily. 

"Shut it, you prick," Noel giggles. He pulls the pillow back into his lap and bites his lip, his grin wicked as Julian's eyebrows shoot up to his forehead. 

The tone of Julian's voice dips, and Noel feels anticipation crawl across his skin. 

"Fielding attacked Barratt savagely-"

Julian shifts in one swift movement to face Noel, and Noel's fingers flex into the pillow. 

"-and without warning." 

It's often without warning on days like this, lying around the flat with nothing to do, facing no specific direction except each other. It's inevitable, really, in every situation. Onstage or in an interview, the tension building up with looks and touches and flirty little asides, it's easy to see the aftermath. They've never constructed a blanket fort on their lazy days around the flat, true, but they've made great use of the sheets and the sofa cushions. Today will be no different.

Sometimes it ends with pants around ankles, sometimes it ends with pants barely scraped down thighs, sometimes it ends with pants gone missing after being flung off, but it always starts with mouths pressed together, lips seeking lips. 

The pile of clippings on Julian's lap fall in a hush of newsprint and magazine gloss to the floor. Neither watches the flutter of paper or the slow sweep of Julian's hand guiding them away. Julian's eyes are holding Noel's too tightly, hypnotic. He's waiting to pounce, a predator, but Noel's no helpless prey. He's waiting for Julian to pounce, too, willing it to happen with his tongue lodged tight in his cheek.

"Eyewitnesses report that retribution was swift."

Every word rolls off Julian's tongue like dark, sweet honey, as deep and warm as his eyes. 

"And Fielding enjoyed every-"

He moves across the bed in the blink of an eye.

"Last."

His face is a breath away from Noel's. 

"Second."

His hands are in Noel's hair and his tongue is in Noel's mouth and the pillow's off Noel's lap, thudding to the floor on top of the clippings. 

All the energy that built in Noel as he paced comes out of him and slides into Julian, electric as they touch. That's what they do when they're together, the push and pull and give and take, the balance that never slips off-kilter. It's the easiest thing Julian's ever done, easier than blinking, easier than breathing. It's automatic, it's inborn, it's instinct, it's magic and magnetic and intoxicating and unreal, but it's them. That's what they are, and fuck the reviews and the reviewers and the naysayers and the people who pretend, who just don't get them and never will. He doesn't care about it. The only thing he cares about is them. 

Noel's hands wind into Julian's curls a second later, tugging him closer, sliding into his lap, and then that's the only thing Julian's thinking of.   



End file.
